I Did NOT Kill Jesus.

It was one of the first nights I’d worked in the brand-new restaurant. Anyone who has worked in restaurants before knows that the first months after opening are a fucking zoo: The pond scum slithers it’s way off the pond and into the joint to try it out – and torture the staff in the progress – the usually new management has no idea how much of everything to order and the waitstaff is so new they can’t tell you if they even stock honey. For tea. At a pizza place. In fact, no one knows if there’s any honey, so it’s a safe bet there’s no honey. It’s a pizza place, after all.

As one of the only servers who’d waited tables before, I got handed the biggest section and was frequently given tables that other servers couldn’t keep up with. It was pizza, not rocket science, and yet, I had the most experience.

One of the tables I’d gotten just as we’d run out of pizza sauce (at a pizza place!); something that sparked horror and general flailing about from management, cooks and servers alike, was a two-top, or deuce, as we called them. Old people. Whatever. I maintained that groups of women are the worst to wait on, so the old people, I wasn’t worried about.

Barely audible over the din of the shrieking waitstaff and patrons (no! pizza! sauce!), they placed their order. I, like I always did, wrote it down neatly in my notebook. It wasn’t to help me remember, no, it was so I could have BACKUP whenever anyone insisted I ordered something wrong. I’d take the fall for a lot of mistakes, but I wouldn’t own it unless it was mine.

I placed the order in the computer and got them their drinks. Pizzas took at least thirty minutes to cook, so I knew I had time to get caught up on the rest of my tables. Like I said, it was a busy night.

When their order came out, I brought it out and served it, just as I’d been showed.

I placed the pieces in front of the woman, she smacked my hand, “THAT’S NOT WHAT I ORDERED,” she screamed. I whipped out my hand-dandy notebook to show her that yes, in fact, it was.

“NO!” she screamed, “it’s not!”

Well, there wasn’t any point in arguing. I apologized. It had obviously been my error in both writing down and repeating back to them. Fine. I knew I was right.

I grabbed the manager and sent him over to deal with her. This was beyond my pay grade.

He fixed it somehow – maybe he gave them a coupon or a new pizza, I didn’t know and didn’t care – and when I brought over drink refills, I apologized again for what had happened.

They looked at me as though I had killed their puppy. Or Jesus. Or their puppy AND Jesus.

Okay then.

Except, they were in my section and every time I went near the table, their mournful, sad and somewhat hateful eyes followed me, just like those haunted house pictures. Every movement I made, they watched, hatefully.

I wanted to yell, “It was just a pizza, you assfuckers!” but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled more brightly with each passing glare. If you can’t win ‘em, be cheerful as fuck about it.

Finally, they left, their eyes no longer murdering me every time I stepped foot near the table. My fellow servers patted me on the back. “Eh,” I said, “she looked like a bullfrog anyway.” Because she did.

The following day, I stopped by my pharmacy to pick up a wrist brace. I know what they say about us Midwestern chicks, but I don’t have cornfed ankles OR wrists. So carrying trays that weighed 6000000 pounds did a number on me. Hence the wrist braces.

Who should walk past me?

The bullfrog lady and her husband. They looked relatively normal until they spied me, squatting there, examining wrist braces. Then, again with the “you killed Jesus stares.”

This time I wasn’t at work. This time I was off the motherfucking clock.

So I did the only thing that made sense: I stuck my tongue out at them and blew a gigantic raspberry.

They glared harder (perhaps I’d been upgraded to “kills baskets of puppies and/or Jesus) as I walked back to the register, a bounce in my step, feeling that I, for once, had finally been able to speak my mind.

(they became regulars at the pizza place and I refused to wait on them ever again)

Brings back the memories of who we lovingly referred to as the ‘Crispy’s’ at the pub I used to work at. They required their drink order immediately upon sitting at their table – and just expected you to remember. (Lucky for me, I did.) They received their nickname for how they liked their fish fry (aka – burnt). It might be a regional thing in WI – but they took their fish fry VERY SERIOUSLY.

And then, when I worked at the family restaurant, there was that old couple who would place five singles on the table and would take money away if anything displeased them during their meal. I always wished I could do something back to them – to show them what a douchebag they were being.

Looking back it is funny – how self-righteous people can be. Gah. I’m glad I am no longer a waitress.

I just dont get why some people are just so damn miserable. Im the loud mouth that will tell you from a table or two away to shut the hell up, nobody is going to die and you arent that important. After being a retail slave for so long it makes me feel good to snap at someone when they are being nasty since the clerk/server can’t.

That must’ve been awesome to give them a raspberry! I never had the (dis)pleasure to see any of horrible tables when I was off the clock. I think *everyone* should have to wait tables for at least six months, just so they have a clue what it’s like. I always get on to people about leaving lousy tips or being grumpy when I go out now.

I once witnessed four old farts being incredibly hard on a harried waitress who was doing her best to keep them happy… an impossible task. This group came in looking for something to whine about, and it started with the menu selection, then the ice in their tea, then (of course) the meat wasn’t cooked to their specifications. It was a fucking Applebees, okay? Not Ruth Cris or whatever it’s called… so if your medium rare piece of cow isn’t exactly the right shade of pink, you choke it down and act like you’ve got some regard for the poor kid trying to keep your table and six more like it happy.
They ended up calling for the manager to make their complaints formally, and this asshat apologized over and over. They told him, loudly, that they intended to leave no tip and wouldn’t be back. He offered them a coupon for a free entree if they would just give his restaurant another try. They grudgingly took the coupon and huffed out.
Over the color of a six dollar steak.
The kid who had been waiting on them was in tears, and the manager spent a couple of minutes lecturing her on all she had done wrong… when in fact, she’d done as well as anyone other than Gandhi or Mother Teresa could have done with The Church Lady and her friends.
As we were leaving I handed her a ten dollar bill, even though she didn’t wait on our table, and told her it was for putting up with shitheads like the four biddies who had made her life miserable. She didn’t know whether to smile or cry, but eventually took the ten.
Sometimes you just wanna reach across the aisle and dump a plate of food in some snobby asshole’s lap to make a point. Don’t sweat the small shit, and it’s all small shit…

For two months I worked in the dining room/restaurant of a public golf course. Only two months cuz my intestines decided to fall out, which is to say I got a hernia and I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than a can of beer, which was *exactly* as awesome as it sounds.

One day, a guy ordered a hamburger with raw onions. I brought him the burger and he was all, “where the hell is the onion?” “Um, right there. On…the…burger?” He demanded I bring him more, which I did, a huge heaping plate full. He was all, “what the hell a person gotta go to get some damn onion around here?” I was all, “sir, if by onion, you mean vagina, which at this point I can only assume you do cuz we have given you all the onion we have and you still aren’t satisfied, then this is not that kinda place. And personally I’m a little offended you just automatically assume I have access to unlimited vagina. Except my own, of course. No you cannot have my vagina! What is *wrong* with you?!”

Okay, so maybe I only worked there two months cuz I accused a customer of wanting my vagina.

Friday night is pizza night at our house. Almost always homemade by yours truly but a few weeks ago we had some errands to run and decided to order a pizza. From PIZZA HUT. And they were out of “large” pizzas. I could get medium – but not at the sale price or even cheaper than menu price. How, pray tell, can you be out of ONLY large pizzas? On a Friday night? At a well-established PIZZA CHAIN?!?! WTF?!?! (Sorry. I know this is sort of irrelevant with you killin’ puppies and all, but it made me remember…)

My mom didn’t wait tables, but she was a chashier at a serve-yourself cafe in the basement of a university student union. Living in the areas surrounding the university was a large contingent of senior citizens on fixed incomes. As a form of community outreach, every Wednesday the university offered anyone with an ID indicating he or she was sixty-five or older a complimentary meal of soup du jour or veggie soup (which was available every day), a small salad from the salad bar,bread and butter, a drink, and coffee ABSOLUTELY FREE OF CHARGE. My mom siad these were the ost ungracious creatures with whom she’s ever come into contact, keeping in mind that she’s spent our entire lives with my brother and me, neither of whom are exactly Prince William and Kat, or even Pippa. The peoploe would be confused about what daf of the week, and when smeone finally convinced them that it wasn’t Wednesday, they’d insist that the girl at the register told them last week that the free meal would be on Thursday this week. Even convincing them that it wasn’t Wednesday today took far more than a newspaper, a calendar, and s Casio watch combined, onc they were finally convinced it wasn’t wednesday, they still weren’t beaten. Sometimes they’d outrightly complain that the free meal wasn’t offered every day of the week. Some onf them would come with much younger daughters and sons, and eve grandchildren, then throw absolute hissy fits when the entire group, and not just those over sixty-five, weren’t served for free. Others would come who were something like sixty-three-and-a-half, then complain that the cafe wouldn’t round up and give them their meal for free anyway. The soup was always too hot ot cold, or had too much celery in it. The coffee was never right. The bread was alwaays too stale for their tastes. When they did order something extra, they’d never have their money ready, yet they were the first to complain if an actual student took a nano-second fishing his wallet out of his pocket. If they did order something for which they’d have to pay, they always threw their money on the counter as opposed to nicely placing it there. Then they’d complain when my mom or another cashier had to take the time to search for the money that they had thrown which had rolled off the counter onto the floor wherever it had rolled and ended up. If they spilled coffee or a drink, it was the counter worker’s fault even though they, the seniors, had both filled the drink and were acrrying it to the register snd then onto their tsble of choice.

My mom was far from wealthy and deserately needed that job among others in order to stay in graduate school, so she had to bite her tongue and put up with most things. She tries to be ope-minded and not be unpleasant to everyone who appears to be over the age of sixty-five because she knows that not all bona fide AARP members (they start sending cards out to people when thy’re somthing like 50 now)are assholes, but she knows she’s going to hate herself and my dad starting the day eah one turns sixty-five.

My mom’s boss at th cafe said that one year when Christmas happened to fall on Wednesday, he left his inhaler in his office attached to the cafe and needed it, so he drove to the university and used his key and alrm code to get it. Since it was Christmas day, there was plenty of really close parking. He saw one of the most obnoxious couples drive up in their Mercedes, park and get out, and walk up to the doors of the student union, trying to open them. When the doors wouldn’t open, they cupped their hands to the darkened glass and peered inside, then began banging on the doors and windows, demanding their free Wednesday meal ON CHRISTMAS DAY. Finally a campus police had to forcefully walk them back to their Mercedes.

Cyanide in the water works babe…they don’t even have to drink it. Just accidentally spill it on them making sure it contact their skin. That will do it. Then they can see for real that you did not kill Jesus!

Don’t even have to resort to cyanide, dude….too much grenadine in those never-ending kiddie cocktails will give those brats the squirts…and the parents something to think about after letting their kid drink 16 of them!

Back during the 7 years I waited tables, I saw a lot of shit (including a shitty diaper left on a table for me to throw away), but this is one of the instances in which I could have given everyone a helluva lot more than a raspberry!
I was once assigned to work a private cocktail party as the only server/bartender, then told I had to wait on a private table of friends of the restaurant’s owners simultaneously — basically impossible. I did my best to balance everyone’s demands until the end of the night when it all fell apart…
Ours was an ‘authentic’ Italian restaurant (and by that I mean that no one that worked there was Italian at all), and therefore only served espresso. If someone wanted a coffee, we served them an Americano — shot of espresso with hot water. At the end of the night, the bussers would throw lemon peels and salt in the pots of hot water we kept handy for Americanos to keep them from getting mineral deposits. Just my luck, they forgot the lemon peels that night.
I accidentally served a salted Americano to an older gentleman at the table of the owner’s friends — obviously a mistake! His wife later read me the riot act, loudly and in front of my manager, about how he had high blood pressure and I could have killed him with that salted coffee! Because of course, I should have been aware of his high blood pressure by looking at him…
I quit that place within the week!

Love waiting tables most of the time….BUT there was this one couple who were totally pizzed at ANYTHING I did…
Long story short, I finally didn’t care if I lost my job or not I gave them their Entrees and said oh so softly..”Remember, I am the last one who touched your food before it came out!”
It was full of the awesome!

Every time my mother and her friends go out for supper I cringe for the poor waitstaff. There are 6 of them, all women, all over 50 (some over 70). They stay for 4 hours and tip about 1%, if that. Even Mom is appalled and she’s a terrible tipper. I keep telling Mom to go back the next day and give them more, but she won’t.

Lord, they sound like some of the people I waited tables on at Bob Evans. I still cringe thinking about that. I had the old man who would insist on sitting in my station ever time he was there and he’d tip me $0.50 each meal. Two quarters. Every meal. Period. And he ran me ragged. On one of my last days there (I was leaving for college) he quietly left. Instead of $0.50 he left an envelope with my name on it and a $100 bill. I never saw him again. And I still don’t know what to think about it, even now, after all these years.

I never waited tables, but I worked at Walmart for 7 years. lol im so glad I work somewhere that I dont HAVE to be nice to complete assmunchies. management always made sure we understood that when comping other stores prices we had to try and catch ppl who were trying to do buy one get one free and %’s off since we didnt comp those.

This one woman always went to the new persons lane to try and get a bunch of things comped that we normally wouldn’t. And apparantly she just didnt know I had worked there since the rising of christ. And when I busted her on it and very nicely said I was sorry, I became known as that “redheaded bitch”
It was great, I was always soooo nice to her and it drove her up a tree, she tried to have me written up for telling her to have a nice day, because “I didnt mean it” lol my boss said, im sorry mam, she just has to say it, we cant make her mean it.

Being IN walmart a few weeks ago, the lady in front of me was being SO NASTY to the little girl ringing the stuff up, just berating her over her hair and her taking too long, and because they have those new thingies that turn where you can get your OWN bags (god forbid)
and she starts yelling, “THE CUSTOMER SERVICE HERE IS JUST HORRIBLE HORRIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!” and then looks at me, as if im going to cheer her on, and my husband is pinching my arm, lol as I smile my best smile and say “mam, im pretty sure lifting those bags wont hurt you or your 4 chins not one little bit….. ”

the cashier was like thank you so much, dont thank me sweetness i did this crap for so long I dont mind standing up for you guys at all. Sundays ALWAYS the worst, ppl would get out of church, come to walmart and be complete asshats.

I shot the sherriff but I did not shoot the Jesus…
HAHAHAHA Family Guy…Clinton in the limo and the cankle party.
You have an amazing ability to make my mind wander and post the stupidest comments ever. I AM NOT A MORON.
Pork.
thatisall